Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  Breathe ... breathe ... eyes down ... Sten's legs curled under him, and he was up. Three steps, and one hand curled around the sentry's chin, snapping the man's head back and to one side. The knife, held ice pick fashion, went straight down into the subclavian artery. The man was unconscious in two seconds, dead in three and a half.

  That gave them their prop for the sleeping sentry trap. It was based on the assumption that in all armies sleeping on guard duty is considered as grave a sin as committing an unnatural act on one's commanding officer.

  They dragged the body against a post, pulled its cap over its eyes, and let it relax. Sten and Alex took flanking positions to either side of the body, ten meters away into the darkness, and waited.

  Sooner or later, the commander of the guard should check his posts. And sooner or later, he did.

  A combat car hummed up from the barracks and wove its way along the perimeter. Sten and Alex were prone, assuming that both occupants would be wearing light-enhancing goggles.

  They were—but they were looking for their sentry, not for two thugs in the deep grass.

  The guard commander saw his “sleeping” sentry. Evidently he decided the man needed a lesson, because the car grounded about ten meters away.

  Sten slunk toward the combat car.

  The Tahn guard officer—one of Frehda's “advisers"—padded toward his sinning sentry. Next he would bend over the man and bellow. Assuming the sentry survived the initial shock, major punishment would follow. The guard officer looked forward to it—he felt that these Tahn farmers were getting mostly slack, merely because the real fighting forces were winning.

  He bent—and Alex's hand crashed out of the night in a teisho-zuki palm strike against his forehead. The blow, delivered by a normal man, would have stunned. With the full force of Kilgour's three-gee muscles behind it, the commander's skull crushed as if it had imploded under pressure.

  Kilgour removed the weapons belts from the two men and ran toward the combat car.

  Sten wiped the blade of his knife on the late driver's tunic and got behind the sled's controls. He pulled the driver's goggles over his eyes and lifted the car three meters into the air, turned it, and drove it at full power toward where his sailors waited.

  They were mobile again.

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  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  THE TAHN COMBAT car gave Sten and his deck apes not only mobility but a cover as well. Sten assumed some logic from the Tahn: all civilian vehicles would be either grounded or impounded, and all Imperial gravsleds would be inside the Cavite City perimeter. Ergo, anything traveling openly must be Tahn.

  Sten did cover himself slightly—after he loaded his people, he found the dustiest road around and made three passes down it within centimeters of the surface. Then he lifted for Cavite City, one more harassed combat car driver trying to get his dusty troops toward the lines.

  The only potential problem might be police checkpoints just behind the lines—but they'd be checking the trip tickets and IDs of those headed away from combat, not toward the sound of guns.

  Then they got even luckier. Sten was waved down by a Tahn road security man as a priority convoy of heavy lifters hurtled through. The convoy was keeping lousy interval, with hundreds of meters between its gravsleds. It was simple for Sten to tuck himself into line near the convoy's end and equally simple to bank down a side street once they hit the outskirts of the city.

  The Imperial perimeter had gotten much smaller. The Tahn, vastly outnumbering the Empire's forces, were closing the ring. Sten managed to evade three Tahn street patrols before he decided he'd pushed their luck far enough.

  Two kilometers from the lines, Sten tucked the combat car into the third story of a shattered building and thought tactically. From this point, the danger would be steadily greater—the Tahn units would be looking for penetration patrols in their own lines, and the no-man's-land between the lines would be even more hazardous.

  Finally, there could well be the problem of being shot by their own troops—Sten had no idea what passwords or signals were in use.

  The answer to their problem was a white-uniformed security patrolman.

  White uniforms, Sten mused. In a combat zone?

  "W hae rank an’ idle ceremony,” Kilgour observed, lowering his binocs. “Cannae we be usin't tha?"

  "You're just looking for an excuse to gash another screw, Kilgour."

  "True. But dinnae it be braw?"

  It was.

  Again, Sten and Alex reconned the situation, going from rooftop to rooftop until they had that security patrolman in plain sight. A second patrolman stood on the other side of what had been a city street and now was a less-rubbled section of ruins.

  Behind the two military cops were two double chaingun positions. Further to the rear were tanks and missile launchers, positioned around a cluster of tracks. These were obviously command vehicles—they sprouted more antennae than a nest of young brine shrimp. It was the command post of the armored brigade supporting the Tahn landing forces. And it lay directly between Sten and the Imperial lines.

  "Shall w’ ring ae second goin’ ae th’ guard?"

  They could—and did.

  Less experienced—or less cynical—soldiers might have skirted the CP. But to Sten and Alex, this was opportunity.

  Intelligence, either personally observed by the two men or taught them in Mantis training: headquarters units had massive security. The security elements may have been selected for their efficiency at first but inevitably would turn into spit-and-polish orderlies. They would be commanded, most likely, by ambitious or well-connected young officers. Their formations would slowly, and almost imperceptibly, transition from combat-based to parade-oriented.

  The troopers in such a unit would be promoted and commended for the gloss on their boots and the shine on their buttons. After hours of such bianco drill, such a man had a certain reluctance to wade through the muck just because he had heard a possibly strange sound.

  And finally there was the factor of arrogance—who would dare attack the powerful?

  Sten and Alex proposed to exploit that arrogance.

  Tourists goggle when the military changes guards. It's done in front of palaces, with dress uniforms, en masse, at predictable times, and with much clanging of weaponry—preferably chromed and antique. That isn't the way it should work when there may be bad guys around—but tradition is tradition, even if it's only a week or so old.

  Sten and his sailors took full advantage of that.

  The changing of the Tahn general's guard consisted of several platoons marching in close order up to each guard post, where, amid shouts and clatter, the old guard would be inspected and relieved by the guard commander. On relief, he would clang the butt of his weapons a couple of times and march to the rear of that platoon. The new guard would be positioned, and the platoons would stomp on to the next post.

  Naturally, that guard changing was done on the clock, by the clock.

  Sten knew that the lowest point in the human soul is four hours after midnight.

  And that is when he moved.

  Clangs ... clatters ... shouted orders ... and Sten's thirteen people slipped silently past the newly posted and yawning guard, straight toward the heart of Atago's command post.

  Marching in plain sight, in formation—Sten desperately hoped that his swabbies were keeping some kind of march step—they went in unchallenged.

  Step one—complete. Step two—find a hidey-hole.

  Kilgour picked an armored supply gravsled, grounded about 150 meters from the command tracks. He slipped through the undogged entry hatch, kukri ready. Sten waited outside as backup.

  He heard only one dying gurgle before Kilgour's head peered back out. The kukri was unbloodied. Not bad, Sten thought. The lad still has his moves.

  He waved the eleven sailors inside. And they waited for dawn.

  Sten, Foss, Kilgour, and Tapia kept watch on the track's screens. At this point, the pl
an deteriorated into opportunity. Sooner or later, sometime around nightfall, Sten thought, there should be some sort of troop movement forward. More chaos. No one would question a group of soldiers moving from a command post toward the front lines. He hoped.

  They would move in Tahn uniforms. At first, Sten thought that every man-jill would be so outfitted—one of the barges was full of sealed paks labeled “Uniforms, Issue, Mk. 113.” But there was further translation: “Full Dress, Temperate Climate (White)."

  Sten thought that if he put his swabbies into those uniforms, they'd probably get out of the CP's lines smoothly—but just might have trouble when they encountered their first Tahn combat troopie.

  But there would be another option.

  In the early afternoon, Sten thought he'd found it. Combat cars hissed in from the lines, and Tahn officers dismounted.

  A command conference, Sten guessed. When this breaks up, we should be able to get up and go.

  Then there was a rumble, and a large troop-carrying gravsled hissed toward the command center. thousand meters above it whined two Tahn battle cruisers.

  "Clottin’ hell,” Alex observed. He had been watching the screen over Sten's shoulder. “Th’ brass ae surfacin't."

  The gravsled grounded, and a ramp dropped. A line of combat-uniformed Tahn soldiers doubled down it.

  "Ah dianne ken th’ Tahn be raisin't Goliaths!"

  The soldiers were very tall. And very broad.

  The giants formed two lines on either side of the ramp.

  And Sten knew what was going to happen next.

  He turned away from the screen and looked at Alex. The heavy-worlder's face was pale.

  "W’ dinnae hae ae choice, do we, lad?” he whispered.

  No, Sten thought. We do not.

  He picked up the willygun leaning next to the screen's control panel and checked its sights and load. Then he moved toward the entry port and cautiously eased it open.

  Sten was a survivor.

  He was also an officer of the Empire.

  Situation posited: Formally dressed bodyguards in plain view. Waiting. As are assembled high-ranking officers.

  Deduction: Someone of high rank will make an appearance.

  Question: Who is that someone?

  Answer: Lady Atago. Or Deska.

  Question: Is the death of Deska desirable—regardless of sacrifice?

  Answer: Probably.

  Question: Is the death of Lady Atago desirable?

  Answer: Absolutely.

  Regardless of the cost, Commander Sten?

  Regardless of the cost.

  Sten took a hasty sling around his arm, braced against the supply sled's port, and aimed, making sure that the muzzle of his willygun didn't protrude into plain sight.

  If Atago came down that ramp, she would die.

  And shortly afterward, so would Sten and the sailors he had so carefully tried to keep alive.

  Kilgour was moving behind him, shaking the others into alertness and whispering.

  About 150 meters away, the bodyguards and the Tahn officers snapped to rigid attention.

  And Lady Atago started down the ramp.

  Aim carefully, Sten, he thought. If it's stupid to die, it's even stupider to get killed after you miss.

  The cross hairs of his sight moved across Atago's red cloak and stopped on the center of her green tunic.

  The Anti-Matter Two round would blow a fist-sized hole in that green.

  Sten inhaled, then exhaled half the breath. His finger took up the slack in the trigger.

  And then Atago's bodyguards moved, as swiftly and skillfully as a corps de ballet, closing around their charge.

  All Sten could see was the white of their uniforms instead of green.

  He swore, then lifted his eyes.

  Atago was still surrounded. And then, still in phalanx, the circle of white giants marched into one of the commandtracks, the Tahn officers straggling behind them.

  Sten lowered his willygun.

  He was breathing as deeply as if he had just run five kilometers or had sex. And the part of his brain that was and always would be a street criminal was reading him the riot act. You. You're disappointed because you're still alive? What the hell is the matter with you? And then that survival brain chortled. Sorry, cheena. I didn't realize you held fire to make sure you wouldn't get blasted. Didn't mean to get critical.

  That thought made it worse.

  Maybe he had. Maybe he had.

  Sten was very quiet and very thoughtful for the remainder of the day.

  Kilgour took over. He stripped uniforms off the bodies of the Tahn crewmen he'd killed and ordered five of the sailors to get into them.

  Near dusk, the Tahn conference broke up. Lady Atago returned to her gravsled completely shielded by her bodyguards. There was never a minute when Sten could have tried again.

  S'be't, as the Jann would have said. Now to worry about the future—and staying alive.

  It was very simple, in the whine and hiss of departing officers and scurrying troops, to move straight out from the perimeter, unchallenged, toward the lines.

  Kilgour found a shell crater, where they waited until full dark.

  He slid up to Sten. “Lad, dinnae fash. We'll hae a chance again,” he whispered.

  Sten grunted.

  "A wee thing more, Skipper. Ah dinnae how to say—but Ah been hae'in't troubles wi’ m’ bowels."

  "So?” Sten managed.

  "Those bales ae white uniforms?"

  "GA."

  "They nae be white n’ more."

  Sten came back to reality and managed a smile.

  Now for the last worry—getting killed by their own troops.

  If he were commanding a Mantis section, Sten thought, the first time the Imperial troops would realize they had been penetrated was when Sten and his people lined up for morning rations.

  But these were sailors.

  He found a shelter for his people in some ruins and went forward on his own. Alex lifted a bushy eyebrow, but Sten shook his head.

  He moved forward like a weasel from patch to patch of darkness. His ringers found a tripflare, and his body lifted over the wire. A booby mine—avoided.

  There—a two-man outpost, both men alert, gun barrels questioning the dark.

  He went past them.

  Then there was the bunker—the reaction element. No. Too trigger-happy. Sten continued on.

  A Guard patrol, coming in from the lines, crept past him. Sten followed them at a discreet distance. One hundred meters farther on, there was a gleam of light as the patrol entered their command post to report.

  Sten counted: ten seconds for welcome; ten seconds for the patrol to dump their weapons; another ten as they poured caff.

  He went down the bunker steps and slipped sideways through the blackout curtain—a torn blanket—before any of the Imperial guardsmen could react. Then, deliberately casual, he said, “I'm Commander Sten. Imperial Navy. I've got some people outside the wire to bring in."

  And they were home.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  GENERAL MAHONEY AND Admiral van Doorman were glowering at a holographic situation map that filled most of Mahoney's command track when Sten reported in.

  "What took you so long?” was Mahoney's sole reaction. Oh, well. Sten hadn't expected exactly the chubby calf treatment—Mahoney's highest compliment when he had been running Mercury Corps had been “duty performed adequately."

  Then he saw Mahoney hide a grin and felt better.

  He scanned the map and felt worse—the Empire was between a rock and a hard place.

  Mahoney touched a control, and the overall battlefield vanished, to be replaced with a projection of one segment.

  "What's left of your command is holding a section of the line—” Mahoney's pointing finger went through a miniscule half-ruined boulevard. “—just here.” For some reason, Sten thought the area looked familiar.

  "Since
we have a, uh, certain surplus of ramp rats without any ships to service, your people became infantry. I put your senior warrant—a Mr. Sutton, I believe—in charge. He's got your unit, plus I scavenged up another seventy-five clerks, chaplain's assistants, PIO types, and so forth."

  Sten kept his poker face. Great, he thought. Not only do my combat people get destroyed, but all my wrenches are dead, too.

  "Oddly enough,” Mahoney continued, “they've done an exceptional job of holding their positions. For some reason the Tahn have only hit them hard a couple of times."

  "The navy knows how to fight,” van Doorman put in.

  Mahoney would not respond to that, especially in front of a lower-ranking officer.

  "But since you've decided to rejoin the living,” he continued, “I'm going to pull your detachment back. I want you to take over this position."

  Again, the table showed another part of Cavite City: a low, bare hillock, not many kilometers from the navy base, surrounded by destroyed housing complexes.

  "We thought this was just a park. But one of my G-2 types found out it's an old fort.

  "One hundred fifty years ago or thereabouts, whoever was running the 23rd Fleet decided that the base needed additional security. I guess the Imperial appropriations were fat that year. About ten years later the money must've run out, because they abandoned it and let the grass grow. But we think it's still active."

  Mahoney turned to another screen and keyed up a projection. This was a cutaway of the hill itself. There were vertical passages leading to flush-mounted turrets and four horizontal levels below them.

  "Typical passive defense,” Mahoney commented. He hit another button and got a vertical schematic of the fort. “Four AA chaincannon here ... here. The turrets are popup, and the cannon can be swiveled down to fifteen degrees below horizontal. Each of the main turrets has antipersonnel projectile guns. There are twelve missile silos, but you don't want to get near them. These two little mounts have quad projectile mounts. And that's going to be your new domicile. Any questions?"

  "Yessir. First, you said you think it's defensible?"